Beg For It
by BecauseIHurtSo
Summary: With the ultimate symbol of The Light within his grasp, what will Voldemort do to break the Resistance so that he may ascend to power? Will eventually become slash/yaoi.


"Touch me! Please!"

"Look at you, begging like a little slut for it. What would the world think of their bloody _savior_ if they saw you like this, hm?" I couldn't help but sneer at him, my lip curled up in a mix of lust and mild disgust.

There Harry Potter sat kneeling at my feet, barely covered in rags, his shiny green eyes glazed over with a combination of fear, desire, and sheer desperation. Had he come crawling to me weeks ago when he was dragged in, rather than now after being nearly starved to death in the dungeons, I might have been more tempted. As it was, I merely found the boy a loathsome sight. His overly large beggar's eyes and prominent bones troubled me more than I cared to admit; in some twisted way, I could see myself, much less powerful and vastly younger, of course, reflected back at me. But, I had to admit, wasted away as he was; he had some- allure- to him that I couldn't deny. The boy was classically beautiful as women should be, with long black eyelashes that had iridescent drops clinging to them.

"Please…" his hoarse voice trailed off, wavering at the very end like some school girl's.

Any little spark of almost pity I might have had for him died off along with his voice; even as a child, I'd had more determination in my pinky fingernail than Potter apparently had in his entire body. What kind of half-hearted seduction attempt was this?

"Why would I want to touch you?" My voice carried no malice, only curiosity; why _would_ I want to touch his emaciated body when I could have any number of soft, supple, clean whores pitch themselves into my bed chambers?

"I thought that perhaps you would find me- I don't know- pleasing?"

Those eyes -where did his cumbersome glasses go? - shone brightly once again, this time with barely repressed hope.

"As you are now, you are disgusting; you are caked in dirt, smell of the rancid darkness of the dungeons and are far thinner than most twelve year olds."

With each word I saw a tiny bit more of that accursed light in his eyes extinguish, and while it didn't give me joy, it certainly didn't pain me to see it either.

"I just thought-"

"You shouldn't have been thinking at all, Potter."

He hung his mangy _greasy_ head in shame and moments later tiny drops of condensation found themselves onto my freshly polished shoes. I barely resisted the urge to kick him in his too-pale concave stomach and instead motioned to one of my Death Eaters who had been standing at attention lined against the wall, biding their time until they were needed. He stumbled over, his sliver mask a tad too small for his ovular face.

"Yes, milord?" The man bowed low to the ground, his shoulder length brown hair hanging limply in strings, straining to touch the ground.

"Take the Boy-Who-Lived to the West Wing, give him a thorough washing, and see to it that he has an at least halfway balanced meal."

The man had yet to lift himself from his lowly position on the ground when I began speaking, but as soon as I finished rattling off the child's name, his head whipped up to look me straight in the eye. Insolent fool. Coincidentally, the man's eyes looked nearly like Potter's in that the glaze he bore was hungry in several different ways.

"Pardon?"

Almost lazily, I lifted my wand and cast the Cruciatus curse. Turning back to the quivering boy, I saw that he had his bug-ish eyes fastened on the screaming man who was writhing in agony hardly a meter away from him. With a simple flick of my wand, I ended the curse and watched the relief reflected on Potter's grimy face.

"Did you hear me that time?" I hissed quietly; why couldn't I seem to get a rise out of Potter when I was threatening _his_ wellbeing?

"Yes, Master." I could hear the weakness in his trembling voice as he struggled to stand on protesting and wobbling legs.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

He quickly reached out to Potter and roughly handled him to his feet.

"Come along, boy."

His manner, while brusque, wasn't necessarily harmful to Potter. Perhaps, until the time came that I needed to use Potter to meet my own ends, Wilson could be his babysitter. It would certainly beat having to watch the little brat myself.


End file.
